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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29090169">not a single wheel</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/manykinsmen/pseuds/manykinsmen'>manykinsmen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Formula 1 RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1982 is back bitches, strike action, there will be ships later i promise and the rating will probably go up but not in chapter one</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:02:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,573</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29090169</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/manykinsmen/pseuds/manykinsmen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When they FIA and the GPDA can't come to an agreement over the 2021 driver's contract, Sebastian Vettel is given no choice but to call a driver's strike. (It's 1982 all over again.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. come brother shipmates tell to me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm writing 2021 as if Covid is dead by the time the season starts because I can't be fucked with including it in my fic. Title from the lyrics of Solidarity Forever because this fic writer's a radical leftist and every song on this playlist is going to be folkpunk or some shit.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Some drivers leave contract reading to their lawyers and accountants. Not Sebastian though. He’s reclined on his sofa, two different colour highlighters and an array of pens and sticky tabs within easy reach. A biro is balanced between his lips as he turns the page over, still warm from his printer. Romain and Alex Wurz are on Zoom on his television screen.</p><p> </p><p>“So I am very concerned about this clause, this doesn’t look right to me,” Romain is saying, the port-wine stain of his scar flashing past the camera as he gesticulates. “I wouldn’t sign with this in here.”</p><p> </p><p>Seb hums as he locates the line. It’s clearly aimed at Ricciardo. <em>The driver agrees not to criticise the FIA or Liberty Media in public interviews</em>. He runs over it in aggressive fuchsia, frowning, then reads a few lines further down and his frown intensifies, a deep wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. <em>The FIA reserves the right to suspend the driver if their behaviour is deemed to reflect poorly on the sport of Formula 1.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>“They always try to sneak that kind of stuff in here and we always object and they always take it out –” Alex is saying, plucking at a loose thread on the cuffed sleeve of his jumper. “I don’t think they’ll put up much of a fight on it, but I’ll write it up on our objections.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is this a morality clause?” Seb asks, pointing it out on the screen. “I mean I know they want to get rid of Mazepin as soon as possible and I am with them there, he’s bad business, but this… It’s quite broad isn’t it? I’m just worried that, especially with the younger drivers coming through and changing attitudes…” Seb is stumbling over his words, a hand rubbing over the back of his neck.</p><p> </p><p>Romain’s eyes go wide suddenly, as if he hadn’t considered the implications properly. “I hadn’t even thought. I mean we race in so many different countries where so many different things are illegal and –”</p><p> </p><p>Alex sighs. “You’re right. It would be very easy to punish someone for homosexuality and depending on the country, there wouldn’t be legal protections to stop them. That can’t stay phrased as it is. Fair enough they want to deal with Mazepin and put something in to stop whatever he’s doing but not like this. It can’t work like this. I’ll ask them to strike it.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s a long meeting. GPDA business, away from the track at least, always is. Seb gets through two cups of coffee and a sandwich before they finish going over the thirty-page 2021 contract with a fine-tooth comb, and after that they have to discuss what wasn’t in the contract just as much as what was. No protections for drivers who refuse to race over safety concerns, for one, and nowhere near as much safety planning as they would like. It’s close to 11pm GMT by the time they finish up, even later for Romain and Alex.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, so this is the finalised list. I’ve e-mailed it to you both. Check it over again and we’ll send it out to everyone to see if they have any further concerns not covered, then on to the FIA at the end of the week. Just to clarify, we’re willing to compromise on even numbers and not on odds. Thanks for staying up guys.” Alex smiles, offering a small wave as he ends the meeting.</p><p> </p><p>Seb sighs, rubbing his eyes. Being a GPDA director is a thankless task when everything is going well.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>They’re on their way to the first race in Bahrain and the contract still isn’t signed. Seb’s trying and failing to get some shut eye on the plane. There are plenty of other drivers around, the ones with team factories in England, and there were some antics earlier, but most of them are sleeping now. Lance is snoring softly, headphones jammed in his ears.</p><p> </p><p>Daniel swings by to sit next to Seb. “You look stressed. What’s up?” Dan’s smiling, speaks playfully, making a couple of jabs at Seb’s ribs with his fingers, but there’s a softness laced in his words.</p><p> </p><p>“I just… This contract. We’re cutting it close.” Seb frowns, chewing his thumbnail. They’ve already compromised on everything they’re willing to and the FIA still haven’t relented.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, at least everybody’s onboard. ‘Cept Mazepin but fuck him.” Dan’s right, of course. They’re one driver shy of a full house on membership this season and no one has broken rank to sign it without the union’s go ahead.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s hard. Being the only director actually on the grid.” As much as he shares duties with Romain and Alex, they’re not under as much pressure, not without a horse in the race. “Fancy being a director? God knows we could do with someone else who’s actually driving.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah. I’ll be out in a few years, give it to one of the kids.” Dan’s smile broadens. “Charles would do it if you asked.”</p><p> </p><p>Seb tips his head back into his seat, his mouth twisted. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s the wrong temperament.” Maybe it would be cruel of him to ask Charles to spend so much time considering what can go wrong. He’s already seen him cry too many times. His gaze flicks over Max, too prone to anger. Sergio, also too close to the end of it all. Lance and Lando, God no the contracts would go straight over their heads. He settles on George. Possibly. “I have to call a meeting when we get there. If we don’t come to an agreement by Friday then I have no choice but to call a vote for a strike.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus.” Dan’s eyebrows shoot up. “I had no idea it was that bad. I thought it was just fiddly little details.”</p><p> </p><p>“No. They’re not giving this time. Romain and Alex are so certain that they’ll cave before Friday but if they don’t… Well there’s nothing else we can do.” Seb looks out of the window, not so much staring into the clouds as into his own reflection. He looks old, tired.</p><p> </p><p>Dan puts a hand on his knee and frowns sympathetically.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Charles has a meltdown when he spots the Armco barrier.</p><p> </p><p>It’s Thursday afternoon and Seb has to excuse himself from a PR event, not that he isn’t keen to leave. His stomach’s in his throat. If they can’t come to an agreement tonight, they can’t sign tomorrow morning. If they can’t sign tomorrow morning, free practice will have to be put back until they do. All thoughts about bureaucracy crumble away when he sees Charles shaking in his Ferrari polo and shorts, his knees pulled into his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t Sebastian. I can’t. Something bad is going to happen. They promised to take it away and they haven’t. Oh god, we can’t.” He’s babbling and Seb wants nothing more than to coax him out of it but he doesn’t have time. He has to get on the phone right now. There isn’t time.</p><p> </p><p>“Carlos – I really have to speak to Romain and Alex. Can you deal with this?” Seb’s already dialing, walking out to find somewhere private as Carlos rushes in to try and calm Charles.</p><p> </p><p>An hour later, Seb has managed to assemble the drivers for an emergency meeting. The press have caught wind that something is happening and are lurking beyond the doors. Mick’s wearing a suit, having come straight from entertaining some of Haas’ investors, and Pierre and Yuki are in gym gear.</p><p> </p><p>Seb steels himself. “Romain, Alex and I have come to the conclusion that we have no choice left but to call a strike.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you had another day?” Lewis tips his head sideways. He’s had to bring Roscoe, who is, admittedly, pretty well behaved. He rubs a hand under the dog’s chin, trying to stop him whining. Dogs can tell when there’s a strange aura in a room.</p><p> </p><p>“They’re not budging. And we have discovered another problem – the Armco is still there. They’re not listening to us and they’re not taking our concerns seriously.” A rumble of concern echoes throughout the room, drivers looking at each other in alarm. “If we vote to strike, then we will be asking GPDA members, regardless of how they personally voted, to not participate in free practice tomorrow until the FIA give into our demands and the contracts are signed.”</p><p> </p><p>“And what about the fines?” It’s Pierre who speaks. “I am behind this one-hundred percent, but I know not everyone’s team will be forgiving if their driver goes on strike. What’s to stop them fielding a replacement?” He looks knowingly at Yuki, who is fidgety, quiet.</p><p> </p><p>Seb bites his lip. It’s not an easy decision for him and he is a seasoned driver and not in any real contention for the World Championship. He can already see it tearing some of the other drivers up inside. His voice wobbles a little as he speaks. “Then we must be unified. That is the strength of a union, that we defend each other. Together, we are stronger than the FIA. I know it’s not an easy decision. Take a couple of hours, speak to who you need to speak to and we’ll reconvene at seven.”</p><p> </p><p>“I… I need to speak to my dad.” Lance almost bolts from the room. Seb can’t help it. He winces.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>It’s a closed ballot, though the equipment is makeshift. The ballot box is a shoebox duct taped closed with a slot cut into the top for papers and the ballots themselves are just strips of paper to write FOR or AGAINST on. No names. Seb deposits his own vote first, then watches like a hawk. Dan’s the first to move, decision made with a big grin, and Valtteri the last, pulling his cap down over his eyes awkwardly.</p><p> </p><p>Seb shakes the box until the paper is redistributed, then opens it up. He reads the votes in a clear voice, for all the room to hear, everyone watching over his shoulder as he does it. His hands are shaking as he unfolds the first vote. “… FOR,” he reads, stumbling over the word. He doesn’t try to guess at the handwriting, that would defeat the purpose of a closed ballot.</p><p> </p><p>He reaches for the second. “FOR.” And the third. “Also FOR.” He takes a deep breath, waiting for the first AGAINST, but it doesn’t come. The fifth is FOR, the sixth, the seventh. By the time he reaches the last, his resolve is unshakeable. This is the right decision. “We are unanimous. Nineteen votes in favour, none against. We will meet at the paddock gates at 9AM tomorrow and begin the strike.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Here's the song for chapter one. It's a folk song called On Board a Man of War, but Blackbeard's Teaparty do by favourite version: https://open.spotify.com/track/1gbUpVVzaYhzVId1Co8kis</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. listen to yourself, you're talking crap</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Seb groans and puts his hands over his eyes as the bus pulls up to the paddock gates. Dan is sitting behind the wheel. He honks the horn a couple of times before opening up the doors and showing Seb his almost perpetual dazzling grin. It’s eight-thirty. Way too early for this shit. Dan hops down and tapes a cardboard sign to the door. <em>FORMULA ONE DRIVERS WANTED. INQUIRE WITHIN.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>“Now this is what a strike looks like,” Dan stands back, admiring his work. “Got a hotel waiting for us across the city. They know we’re coming, don’t panic.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dan…” Seb has to give him this. Dan knows his history, his references, and it’s a clever move to get the press on their side. It would be so easier to pass them off as petulant rich boys throwing their toys out of the pram, which in fairness, they sometimes were. “What in the name of sanity are you wearing?”</p><p> </p><p>“These bad boys? Made ‘em myself. I texted Britney to see if he could get me some of his dad’s vintage shorts but I got ghosted.” Dan is wearing the shortest shorts Seb has ever seen a man dare to. They’re denim and frayed round the bottom from where Dan had hacked at them with a pair of scissors. It’s a rough, inexpert job and only Dan would have the gall to even attempt it but somehow, he pulls it off. “Strike wear. We should make everyone a pair.” Dan winks.</p><p> </p><p>Pierre is the first to turn up, eager for it, Yuki in tow. “Nice,” he laughs, high-fiving Dan as he climbs aboard and lays claim to the back seat, sprawling out with his headphones in. There’s a crowd forming already, confused racing fans pointing and talking to each other. No one has dared approach Seb yet, who gulps at his coffee, waiting for the storm. Yuki offers Seb an awkward smile and patters after Pierre. He gives Dan a fist-bump when prompted, giggling.</p><p> </p><p>Mick is also early. “Can he come?” He points his thumb over his shoulder at Callum Ilott, who waves.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Seb feels guilty. He hadn’t even considered the reserve drivers or those in the support races, but they have just as much right to be angry and concerned. They sign the same contracts after all. He fires off a quick text to Romain and Alex, who send him back a pair of thumbs. “Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“Great. There’s a few of us in the group chat that want in,” Callum says and sure enough, Jack Aitken, Marcus Armstrong and Nico Hulkenberg appear in a small gaggle.</p><p> </p><p>Seb raises an eyebrow at Nico. “Who are you even reserve for this time?”</p><p> </p><p>Nico shrugs his shoulders. “Who am I <em>not</em> reserve for?”</p><p> </p><p>For the most part, the drivers are on time. Fernando herds Lance, Esteban and Antonio aboard with Kimi bringing up the rear. Kimi has his sunglasses on and that expression that says don’t ask me questions for at least another hour, the one that makes Seb chuckle in spite of the seriousness of the day.</p><p> </p><p>By the time Lewis and Valtteri make their appearance, there’s a crowd and half of them have press badges and cameras. Flash bulbs are going off everywhere and it makes Seb’s eyes hurt. Some of the peppier drivers even pose, Pierre with his front half dangling out of a window while Dan hangs off the grab rail by the door. Someone shoves a microphone in Seb’s face and he’s surprised for a moment to see it’s Martin Brundle, headset jammed over his ears already.</p><p> </p><p>“Can you tell us what’s going on here then, Sebastian?”</p><p> </p><p>Seb folds his arms, trying to paint on a grin like Dan’s. “What’s it look like to you Martin?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’d say it looks like a strike,” Martin doesn’t hesitate to reply, his expression curious, but not concerned.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s right. The FIA has been unwilling to negotiate with the GPDA on the 2021 contract, so they’ve given us no other choice.” Seb’s been practicing this bit all night. He is the face of this after all, and he can’t afford to put a word wrong. “We cannot race until the contract is signed and we won’t sign the contract as is.”</p><p> </p><p>Valtteri dodges the cameras and microphones as he gets on board, while Lewis is more happy to speak. Seb smiles at Lewis, glad of some support from someone he can trust not to say something completely idiotic. There’s a ripple through the crowd and Martin is shoved aside to make room for Guenther Steiner, already red in the face.</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck is this? You steal my driver?” Guenther glares first at Seb, then back at Dan. “Mick, get back here. We have to do free practice.”</p><p> </p><p>Mick pops his head round the door, Callum just barely visible behind him. “Sorry. Union says no.” He’s politer than anyone else would have been, except perhaps Yuki.</p><p> </p><p>“Like I said, he can’t anyway. The contract’s not signed. The FIA won’t allow it.” Seb shrugs his shoulder, stepping briefly to the side to allow Charles and Carlos aboard. He can see Ferrari staff in the crowd, Binotto’s hair visible, talking to someone else Seb can’t quite make out.</p><p> </p><p>“Nikita’s contract is signed,” Guenther fumes.</p><p> </p><p>“Then let him drive, but the rest of us won’t.”</p><p> </p><p>George and Nicky tug Lando through the crowd. Thank goodness they’re tall enough not to lose him to the baying mob. Seb runs down his mental checklist. Who else are they waiting on? Red Bull. He bites his lip. They could easily chicken out and he wouldn’t blame them. He could hear Christian Horner yelling at someone at the back of the crowd. Moments later Max muscles his way through, pushing Checo ahead of him.</p><p> </p><p>“Get fucked!” Max calls over his shoulder. Oh God, he’s a PR nightmare.</p><p> </p><p>Dan’s cackling at the wheel, honking the horn. “Is that everyone? Last call!”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait!” George calls from the front seat, his eyes wide.</p><p> </p><p>There’s something going on just out of Seb’s view. He wades through the crowd to see what it is and finds Alex Albon, frozen like a rabbit in the headlights under Christian’s gaze. He’s wearing his team polo and his head is bowed like a child mid-punishment.</p><p> </p><p>“You get on that bus and you’ll never so much as look at a car again, you hear me,” Christian snarls. He looks up, his expression softening rapidly as he sets eyes on Seb. “Look, call this off. None of you want to miss out on those valuable points.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re going to run it with Mazepin and whoever else you can rustle up? Come on Christian. That’d be a joke.” Seb claps a hand on Alex’s shoulder reassuring. “You didn’t use to be this much of an asshole, you know. Come on Alex. He has no right to talk to you like that, especially such empty threats.”</p><p> </p><p>Alex takes a deep breath. Seb can hear the air hissing through his nostrils. He nods and follows Seb back onto the bus. Dan closes the doors behind them.</p><p> </p><p>“Got the straggler!” Seb calls, taking the empty front seat next to George while Alex slides into the row behind beside Lando. He turns to look at Alex through the gap in the seats. Lando is shaking Alex’s shoulder, cheering, and George beaming. “The GPDA won’t let them treat you like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Dan fires up the engine, blasts the horn a couple of times to encourage the crowd to move aside and turns onto the road. “You got a name for our bus Seb?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s only rented, but it does feel like it deserves a name. He hums. “Saoirse,” he decides after a moment. It means freedom.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Nobody knows where they’re going except Dan, which gives them precious time to organise themselves before the press and the FIA can locate them. He pulls into the carpark of a dingy hotel. Well, perhaps dingy isn’t the right word, Seb supposes. It’s just an ordinary hotel, there’s nothing wrong with it exactly, it just isn’t quite what he’s used to these days. There’s no glamour to it.</p><p> </p><p>They’re ushered into the biggest conference room they have. It’s on the ground floor, with big windows that look out… Onto the carpark. Onto their own bus. Fortunately, there are pretty effective blinds that they can pull down. They push the tables and chairs into a corner and then the hotel staff start bringing in mattresses and blankets and bedding.</p><p> </p><p>Seb rolls his eyes. “Really?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a sit in. We might as well get comfortable. We’re gonna be here overnight at least,” Dan replies, unpacking a few things from the bus. Crates of water, snacks, enough cardboard and marker pens that it feels more like a school trip than a protest. Honestly, Seb hadn’t really considered how long this was going to go on for. He couldn’t imagine it lasting more than twenty-four hours. “HOPE YOU BROUGHT SPARE PANTS GUYS.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wish I’d brought some for you,” Charles snaps back at Dan, sticking his tongue out. “Slut.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, no fighting in the ranks,” Dan pouts in response.</p><p> </p><p>Once everybody’s laid claim to a spot, Seb stands up on a table where everyone can see him. “Okay, before they get here, ground rules. This is a strike, so be careful what you say and do.” He tries not to look at Max. “It’s reflective on our demands. We want to look as good as possible. If you have to go out, to smoke, to the bathroom, whatever, don’t go on your own. Pairs, minimum, and don’t talk to the press or the FIA. That’s for me, Dan and Lewis.”</p><p> </p><p>He looks back at Dan and Lewis for reassurance. They did sign up for this the night before, being older and more comfortable with the press. He clears his throat and continues. “Romain and Alex are inbound. They should be here this afternoon to help with talks. They’re going to stay elsewhere so they can focus on the paperwork, so I’m in charge. Oh, and don’t let anyone else in here. No girlfriends. You wanna talk to them, they can stand in the doorway.” Seb gestures to the fire exit behind them. It’s propped open with a brick to let some air in. “Any questions?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a murmur through the group but no one seems to have anything in particular to- Oh, Lando has his hand up. He’s pointing at the projector wired into the ceiling. “Can we use that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh… I don’t see why not?” Seb’s a little baffled.</p><p><br/>“Awesome.” Lando pulls out his switch and starts wiring it into the computer. “Mario Kart championship anyone?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Here's the song for this chapter. It's Thing Like That by Skinny Lister: https://open.spotify.com/track/4zlBBc0UYJtVq7jdKksjhu</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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